Page 61 of Mine

She stirs as if she can feel me. Her brows draw together in distress.

Quickly, I lift a strand of long black hair and thread it through the blades of the scissors.

“Soon,” I whisper and snip.

Thirty-Eight

Sabine

I’m jolted awake from my nap. Frowning, I sit up with the strangest feeling that someone is in the room with me, but I see no one. It’s a different feeling than when I awake to Astor in the middle of the night. This is one of unease. Fear.

Must be the sleeping pill I took.

Blinking, I look at the clock. It’s already six in the evening. Astor is expecting me in one hour. I’m disoriented, surprised I slept so hard. I make a mental note to steal more of those pills.

I push off the bed and walk into the bathroom. Staring at myself in the mirror, I frown.

“What the ...” I run my fingers over a short patch of hair sticking out from the side of my head. It’s as if someone cut a small strand out of my hair.

How the hell did that happen?

Could I have done that in some sleeping-pill sleepwalking scenario? Or is my hair starting to fall out and break from stress?

I spin around, expecting to see another headless doll on the bed, or the ghost of Valerie herself, sneering down at me with a pair of scissors in her hand.

But there is nothing ... nothing more than a heavy feeling of doom in my stomach.

Thirty-Nine

Sabine

“You watched me last night.” I cock a brow, sliding my napkin on my lap.

I’m referring to Astor watching me masturbate. Yes, it’s a bold conversation starter, but it’s my last night here. I’m bringing the big guns and focusing only on the man in front of me.

Not the death certificate, not who is putting creepy stuff in my room, not what happened to Astor’s daughter, and not who (or what) cut my hair, and certainly not if I’m going crazy. Honestly, at this point, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there is a ghost here, and he/she/it/they hates me.

So, right, it’s going to be all about Astor.

We are in the dining room, sitting across from each other, under the glow of a magnificent crystal chandelier. The table is set with pristine porcelain dinnerware, linen napkins with gold rings, and crystal stemware. A lush green salad is centered in front of me, along with freshly baked bread and butter. A trio of candles burn in the center of the table, next to a decanter of red wine, half of which has been poured into our glasses.

It’s an elegant display of opulence, just like the man sitting across from me, and so unlike me. I’m wearing the only clothes I have, baggy jeans and a white sweater, while Astor looks divine in a fitted navy suit. Casual—for a billionaire—and insanely sexy.

“Do you blame me for watching?” he asks, his hot gaze boring into mine in the way only he is capable of—like he is staring right into my soul.

I’m certain that Astor and I could be in a crowd with a hundred people, and he could still make me feel like the only woman in the room.

Before I can respond, he says hotly, “And by the way, close the door next time.”

I blink, a rush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks.

Astor raises a brow. “Cillian is also staying in the house. You know this.”

Oh.

Oh.

Does Astor care if another man sees me naked? Is that possessiveness I sense in his tone?

---